Jennifer Greene - The Billionaire’s Handler

Still. She was warming up to the idea. “You could burn it if you wanted to. Or throw it away. I always thought I wanted heaps of it. That it’d be so much fun to buy anything I wanted. That I’d feel so much safer if I had security in the bank. And that’s been the craziest part. It’s not fun. And I don’t think I’ll ever feel safe again.”

“Yes, you will,” he said quietly, forcefully. “You can make different choices-”

“I know, I know. I could always choose to just give it all away. And in principle, I’d love to do that. To pick people and causes who really needed something, or someone, to come through for them. Only, Maguire, I learned the hard way that it’ll never be like that. Because no matter who I give to, someone else will be mad that it wasn’t them. Or mad that I didn’t give enough.”

“But there’s still another choice-”

“I know, I know. You think I haven’t thought this through? I could start all over under an assumed name. That has a lot of appeal. You probably think it’s the best choice. I mean, I’ve been whining about what awful people my family and friends have turned into, haven’t I? But I just can’t see giving them totally up quite yet. I mean, they’re my whole history. Warts and all, they’re still my blood. Maybe my life is broken right now…but getting even more broken doesn’t make any more sense, does it?”

“No. And there really is another choice, Carolina.”

“What?”

But just then Wilbur emerged from the front cabin, ordering them to strap in because they were “imminently landing.”

For the first time in hours, she glanced out the window. She hadn’t asked where they were going-didn’t really care-and her internal time clock was so topsy-turvy that she didn’t have a clue what time it was. But there was some kind of ambient pale light outside, enough to reveal breathtaking, snow-covered mountains, higher than any she’d either seen or dreamed of.

“Where are we?”

“In the air,” Maguire said dryly.

She flashed him a look. “I might just sock you on general principle. Answer the question.”

“We’re at one of the places that’s going to help you find the answers you’re looking for.”

“I hate cryptic. Just so you know.”

“All right. I’ll answer you straight. We’re going to a place where you’re going to get good and muddy. Muddier than you’ve ever been in your entire life.”

“Muddy? Huh?”

He meant it. The crazy man actually meant it. Carolina remembered the lists he’d made her create, that somewhere she’d mentioned wanting to sleep in a real castle, something else about wanting a spa weekend. At the time, she’d thought the whole thing was a joke. Nothing anyone would take seriously.

Yet the green mud completely slathering her body was unquestionably real.

And so was the castle.

“You’re not too cold, mam’selle? Too warm?”

“I’m perfect,” Carolina assured the tall Amazon with the serene blue eyes and hands of steel.

“Are you thirsty? Would you care for a drink?”

The last time she’d admitted to thirst, Greta had given her some god-awful herbal concoction that made her eyes sting and her tongue pucker. It wasn’t safe around here to admit wanting or needing anything.

“I’m fine,” she said.

“All right. Now, you close your eyes. I’ll be back in thirty minutes, after the clay has set.”

The mud-clay had already started setting. She was increasingly feeling like a naked mummy. A naked green mummy. The castle was located in the Alps-whether Swiss or French or Italian, she had no idea. But it was perched on a cliff top, accessible only via helicopter, and the once-classic structure had been turned into an elegantly exotic spa. The place had a great room draped with impossibly tall silk tapestries. The fireplaces in half the rooms were bigger than she was. The floors were all stone or marble, but heated beneath the floor, so it was warm walking around, even in bare feet. Fountains decorated almost all the rooms, as did candles. The view outside was of treacherously tall mountains, draped with a white ermine cape of snow. Inside was luxury, pampering, softness, gentle music.

“You’re surviving in there, Cee?”

She heard him. Maguire’s sexy tenor was unmistakable. He was in the next room-sort of an anteroom he’d turned into a makeshift office. It had a laptop, printer, fax, all the usual office suspects, although she hadn’t once heard a telephone ring. She concluded Maguire had forbidden telephones anywhere near her.

He’d disappeared from physical sight, once the Amazonian Greta had shown up to slather her in mud and seaweed. He was just within calling distance, and asked how she was doing on a regular basis.

He hadn’t looked. Not the whole time she’d been stripped down, gooped up, smoothed, encased in oils and warm towels and then this clay-mud thing. It was more than a little weird, being naked with strangers. But enticingly weird, knowing Maguire was in the next room, always close enough to call for him.

It was impossible not to be aware that she was naked. That he knew it.

Of course, she was coated in green slime, so heaven knew why sex was on her mind. Probably he’d run for the hills if he saw her.

“Doing good. You getting business done in there?”

“Yeah. Funny world today. It doesn’t really matter where you are, it’s not that hard to communicate with anyone at any time from any place.”

“Maguire.”

“Yeah?”

“You set this up because it was on my list.”

“Well, yeah. It was an easy twofer. You wanted to sleep in a castle. And do the spa thing.”

“I want my list back.”

“Nope.”

“I thought it was a game. Just something silly. I don’t want or expect anything else from that list.”

“Uh-huh. Damn, I seem to have a fax coming in, and need to do some business here for a while…”

Right. She believed the moon was made of cheese, too. Maguire somehow never answered questions he didn’t want to answer. And even though she’d spent long days with him now, she still didn’t know where he lived, or what he did with his time.

If he had a woman in his life.

Or what he’d thought of those kisses they’d shared a few days ago. She really wanted to know if they’d haunted him the way they were haunting her.

Temporarily, there was no possible way to address the idea. Greta showed up again, did more terrifying things. It took ages to rinse off all the mud, and then she was coated with warm spicy oils and rubbed down. After that, her feet and hands were encased in warm packs, and her hair coated with something that looked like mayonnaise and smelled like vanilla.

By the time she was starting to feel like a recipe, Greta let her shower the whole thing off. Her hair was dried, her toes and nails pampered. She was snuggled into a black, whisper-satin gown like the kind movie stars wore in the forties, warned that she’d need a good long nap after all the treatments, and put in a wrought-iron elevator.

Their suite was on the third floor. Carolina had no idea how many others were enjoying the spa, but so far she’d only seen staff-and Maguire. The suite took her breath the first time she saw it.

His-and-her bedrooms both had their own bathrooms. The central living area between held a fireplace, a medieval round table and a wall tapestry that concealed a minifridge with snacks and drinks. Her bed was on a pedestal, with velvet drapes and hand-embroidered pillows. Greta had told her the truth. She barely made it inside before folding up on the bed and sleeping hard and deep.

When she wakened, though, the sensation of luxurious pampering and contentment was gone. Her head was thudding, her heart pounding. The long, whisper-satin gown still felt embarrassingly sexy against her skin, the heap of Swiss feather bed no less fabulous, but she headed into the main room, knelt down on the stone hearth.